


Hawking

by House_of_Ares



Series: Zen and the Art of Falconry [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_of_Ares/pseuds/House_of_Ares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow-up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/440057">Flying Haggard</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hawking

**Author's Note:**

> Electricity, D/s, most of the warnings that went with FH.

He's reading – actually just reading for pleasure, leaning against the headboard, idly making circles on his pajama pants with a big toe. Thomas Paine seems like one of the authors he should have read, so he finally picked up a copy of Common Sense at the bookstore, and it's pretty damned good.

Barton's out in the living room, probably watching TV. Things have been blissfully quiet the last few months, and he's starting to almost feel like his old self again.

He flicks his eyes up over the tops of his glasses at the movement – it's Clint, coming to bed, wearing his collar and a pair of purple-and-gray plaid boxers as usual.  
“Game over?”  
“Yeah. Tampa Bay lost.”  
“Mm.” He doesn't give a damn about hockey. That's Clint's thing.

Barton crawls onto the bed – it's kind of a given, now, that this is where he sleeps – and Phil looks at him over the glasses again and puts the book on the nightstand.  
“Any plans for tomorrow?”  
“No.” He stretches and yawns. “Going to see if Rogers can dodge my arrows, maybe, at the range.”  
Phil rolls his eyes. That doesn't sound like a good idea. Then again – what's the harm?  
“No exploding ones.”  
“'Course not.”  
He slides down a little bit and adjusts the pillow and Clint is digging in his nightstand drawer.  
“Lube's on my side,” he says easily.  
“I know,” Clint says, and when he turns over facing Phil, it's the TASER in his hand. He puts it between them on the sheet, licks his lips and cracks his neck.

“Why?” Clint doesn't look panicked or freaked or even edgy. The TASER is kind of a last-ditch thing anymore; there's dust along most of the handle. “You not doing okay?”

“I'm fine,” he says. He curls his head down a bit, baring the back of his neck. “Just … I kind of miss it.”  
He reaches over, rubs neck and scratches gently through hair.  
“It hurts like hell,” he says. He's been zapped plenty of times, drive-stun and probes, and it never ceases to be unpleasant, that crushing tightness and the inescapable spasms and inability to react the most distasteful parts of training.

“Yeah, but I kind of like it,” he says anyway, and pushes the TASER toward him.

He picks it up with a sigh, as if he begrudges him this, and touches it to the bare back of his neck.  
It's not even a full squeeze, just a tap, enough to get part of a crackle, and Clint jerks and snorts.

“Tease.”

“Yep.”  
He sets it down between the pillows and manhandles Clint, paws him to his belly and then over again so he can wrap up against back, arms wrapped around his archer, and bite at shoulder.

“Maybe I need a more unpleasant punishment for you, then,” he says, grinning against skin. It's clean, smells of sandalwood soap and Bay Rum.

“Mm. No, it's good,” Clint huffs, and he stretch-flexes in the hold. Phil clamps down with his arms a little more, keeps him penned up tight and rubs on his ass a little. Common Sense isn't, when you have an ass like this so close.  
Clint starts pushing back against him, moving easy and using his cheeks to squeeze cock, and Phil bites neck again, rakes his teeth through the short fine hair at the back.  
When he pulls his upper body away, Clint takes a long breath, and he puts the TASER right up against skin and gives him another little jolt. It gets a jerk and a groan and then a shaky little noise in his nose.

It's baffling, how he likes this, and Phil wraps a hand around his forehead from behind, holds him tight and gives him a full second. As soon as it's off, Clint's twisting against him, rubbing forehead against palm and sliding a leg back between Phil's.

“You're such a slut for this,” he says, grinning, breaths a little quicker now, and Clint grabs his hand, laces their fingers, brings them down to his dick. It's unreasonably hard for a man being hit with that kind of voltage.

“You love it,” Clint breathes. He does.  
It's awkward but he props himself on an elbow, keeps his hand where Clint wants it while he puts the TASER to neck again and Clint's pushing back against it the way he's pushing his ass against cock.

He pauses, takes his hand back and pushes Clint's boxers down.  
“Ditch these,” he says, and let it never be said that Clint Barton can't obey when he wants to.  
He sucks a finger and skates it around hole; it's not as wet as it could be, but neither of them seem to care. Another shot of electricity, and he shoves it in. He half expected to feel the current, but there's nothing.  
He lets up on the trigger and Clint drags in a shaky breath, pushes back more, but he slides his finger out and turns to get the lube.

“Didn’t want to jolt myself,” he says, lips against neck, when he’s got enough on his fingers and starts working it in. “You can like it all you want. Not my thing.” 

Clint huffs a little chuckle and groans and slides his knee up to give him more room.  
“Not going to juice you?”  
“Don't think so.”

It's a concession he makes, not taking it slow and getting him open, because Clint's never patient enough for that. It must hurt like hell, always makes him groan and bite and claw at the mattress or Phil or whatever he can, but he's also been very clear that this is how he wants it, so Phil goes along. He's so damned tight it's too good to argue about anyway, and this time is no different, all of Clint shaking and twisting and gasping beneath him as he mounts him and shoves in.  
“Fuck,” he whispers, and leans down to bite a scar on his back.

It’s a big step, he thinks, how they’ve transmuted what Loki did, turned it into something better. He goes a few strokes, until Clint calms down a little under him, then puts the TASER to his neck again and gives him a jolt without warning.

The way he seizes up, clenches tight – it's almost too much, and Phil lets up on the trigger, panting. Clint goes wild, bucking, skin goosebumping as he shivers and barely keeps his elbows locked.  
“More,” he demands, and Phil's not sure how long he can hold out with this, so he takes a few more thrusts and wraps arm under chest, hits him again. He can feel how pecs lock up, but it's hazy compared with how goddamned tight he squeezes around cock, and he slides twice into the grip before he has to let up on the electricity.

“Next time, you're going to come,” he growls, leaned down over back, and Clint just nods, head hanging as he pants.

He rolls his hips again, strokes and slides a hand along Clint's flank, keeping him a little off-balance and enjoying the moment. It should be a surprise.

This time, he squeezes just when it hits skin, and when Clint goes rigid, he _takes_ , slamming in because it's not going to take any time at all.

“Come,” he orders, and he can't tell if it's obeyed; Clint is shaking and clenched up and he bites into skin again, only lets up on the trigger when he's shuddering through his own orgasm.

Clint goes down, elbows failing, and he puts the TASER aside and pulls him over, still inside, still feeling the spasms.  
“Good?” His head is buzzing so hard it sounds distant.  
“Fuck, yes,” Clint pants, and he brushes a hand down, pleased when it comes away slick.  
“You're a kinky thing,” he murmurs, and Clint pulls away with a little wince, turns over to look at him. His eyes are at half-mast, like a junkie that just got a good hit.  
“You like it.”  
“Yeah, I do.” He brushes a hand over the back of neck – there are little bumps there, little minor burns, and Clint just eases closer to him and tucks his face against chest.  
“Thanks.”


End file.
